Have you ever noticed how whispers can echo in an empty room, bouncing off walls that have recorded sadness over generations? Silence doesn't mean absence; it means there's a history of voices that have lived and died etched into the air. You might find calls that once reached out, now swallowed by quiet, undoing themselves like an artist scrubbing forgotten images from a canvas.
There's a story of a lady in the old house down by the creek—we called her "The Whisper". Never glimpsed, just heard murmuring half-words caught on the breeze, like fragments from a conversation that weave rich tapestries around stories told and untold. There's palimpsest in her presence too, I think. Unwritten histories hiding in the folds of time.